Reid found a piece of sky and tried it in seven places.
“You’re bad at this,” I said.
“I manage a marine service yard.”
“That does not require visual reasoning?”
“Apparently not.”
I turned the piece in his hand.
It belonged near the harbor mouth.
Reid pressed it into place.
“You did that.”
“You held it.”
“Team effort.”
He looked pleased enough that I let him keep the victory.
The clock above the kitchen reached one.
Reid’s phone vibrated.
He checked it and sighed.
“Supplier?”
“Caleb asking whether I know where we keep the stainless terminal blocks.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“Your bench.”
I laughed.
“Then he deserves to suffer.”
Reid typed a reply.
“I need to go back down.”
The calm in my head shifted.
It happened every time he left.
Not panic.
A thinning.
As though the room’s walls moved half an inch farther away.
